


Sherlock At His Most Charming

by berlynn_wohl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Embarrassment, Established Relationship, Fight Sex, M/M, Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-01
Updated: 2011-06-01
Packaged: 2017-10-26 09:39:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Look at you, just enjoying yourself, like an ordinary person would do."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock At His Most Charming

Sherlock was sinking.

You could feel it all through the flat. The way his boredom made the air heavy. The tension borne of a frenzied mind trapped in a human body trapped in a cluttered sitting room trapped in a well-behaved metropolis. He was trapped and sinking and he would trap and sink you with him if he could manage it. Hell, even if you weren’t perceptive enough to feel it, you could _hear_ it. The screaming.

“I’m sick and tired of hearing about how clever this man is,” Sherlock snarled at the television. He had the channel-changer in his hand but wouldn’t dream of actually changing the channel. “He yammers on and on and never says anything remotely interesting.”

His concentration broken again, John struck the wrong letters on the keyboard, producing the word “Sherlcok” for the twelfth time. He backspaced to the “l” and said, “What about that programme we saw last year, when he went to that university in America where they watch corpses rot?”

“There was that,” Sherlock grudgingly admitted. “But it wasn’t him that made it interesting. I’ve got to write to that place, by the way. I wrote the name down somewhere...”

Despite his disdain for the “inane,” “vacuous,” “idiotic” panel show, Sherlock continued to watch it for its duration, occasionally shouting out answers -- or, more accurately, _responses_. John was having a hard time focusing on translating his scribbled notes, because every few seconds his flatmate screamed “Who bloody cares?!” or “Some dead bastard!”

John mused that, if properly motivated, Sherlock could easily produce a work of historical satire that would rival _1066 And All That_. But since he likely never would, John was faced with some more immediate truths, which were:

That he would not be able to finish his blog entry on the Stigmata In The Statuary if Sherlock did not keep quiet;

that Sherlock was quietest when he was asleep;

and that though Sherlock slept very little, there was one certain (if somewhat protracted) way to deliver him straight into the arms of Morpheus.

John closed his laptop, snatched up the channel-changer, shut off the television, flung the channel-changer away, and said, “Why don’t we go upstairs and have a nice, slow, luxurious fuck?”

Sherlock looked at the channel-changer, now in two parts, its battery cover having snapped open, on the sofa cushion. Ugh, it was all the way over _there_ now.

He looked up at John and said, “Alright.”  

***** 

 

All John’s exasperation had vanished by the time Sherlock mounted him and sank deliciously down on his cock. He was about to get a nice show, all those sinewy limbs flexing, that long pink cock bobbing freely in front of him before Sherlock took it in hand. Later on, when things got more vigorous, he would push up and do his share of the fucking, but for now he seized this rare opportunity to just put his hands behind his head and let Sherlock have at it.

For his part, Sherlock worked himself back and forth, up and down, getting himself used to the stretch and the fullness. When he saw John lie back and relax, he knew he had a job to do. He flexed his slender, powerful thighs and raised himself up, tossed his head to get his hair out of his eyes, and sighed contentedly as he plunged back down. But halfway through, the sigh he was uttering for show turned to a groan of surprise, because on the downstroke, the head of John’s cock glanced off his prostate in the most delectable way. After that, Sherlock managed to do something that he could not always get just right: he replicated the stroke, pushing up and sliding down again at just the right speed, tilted forward at just the right angle, to make the same gorgeous contact inside. The trick was to keep the stroke short. He braced both hands on John’s ribcage and started to bounce on John’s cock, the canting of his hips assuring that every downstroke resulted not in a direct hit, but an enticing caress.

His eyes closed and he began to pant in time with his quick little pumps. He made his pleasure known with a litany of unintelligible coos and whispers. But then, underneath his hands, he felt a tremor that told him that John was laughing. He froze and fixed John with a look that could turn a desert to glass.

“You’re laughing at me.”

“I’m sorry,” John said gleefully, ignoring Sherlock’s glare. “I didn’t mean for you to stop. It’s just, look at you having a good ride. You’re just enjoying yourself, like an ordinary person would do.”

John was only trying to be encouraging, but Sherlock slumped and covered his face with one hand.

“What’s wrong?” Taking his hands from behind his head, he pulled Sherlock close.

Sherlock buried his face in John’s chest and pleaded, “John. Never tell anyone I’ve been this way. No one can know that I behave like this. I just turn into an animal. I would be ruined if people found out about it. No one would take me seriously.”

With Sherlock’s face pressed to his sternum, John could feel that baritone right down to his balls. But he tried to set that aside for a moment, as things had just gotten a bit serious. “Of course I would never tell anyone about what we do,” he said. “Do you think I don’t realise how special it is, that you share yourself with me? I would never compromise that.”

Sherlock was very still for a few moments. John could feel him thinking. Then:

“John.”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember two weeks ago when we were here in bed, and I was lying face down, and you got on top of me…but you weren’t sitting up, you were flat on top. Do you remember?”

“Yes.”

“I really enjoyed that. I don’t think I could come like that, because I can’t touch myself properly when you’re pressing on me. But it felt good. Could we switch to that, just for a while? And then we can switch again to finish.”

“Of course.” John smiled, and then his smile turned into a laugh again.

“You’re laughing at me again. Stop it.”

“Because you’re _hilarious_! Every day of your life, you just open your mouth and tear people to shreds. You walk around London like you own it. You refuse to apologise for shooting holes in whatever happens to be in front of you at the time. And here all you’re asking to do is change positions, and you’re meek as a lamb.”

“I don’t appreciate being ridiculed,” Sherlock said, still with his head on John’s chest and not looking at him.

“I’m not ridiculing you! I think you’re at your most charming when you’re embarrassed. Probably because it’s so rare. And anyway, I know you just want to do it face-down because you’re lazy and you want me to do all the work.”

“I like it because it’s easiest for you to hit my prostate on every stroke, and that’s what I’m in the mood for. The fact that you’re doing all the work is a happy coincidence.”

Sherlock lifted one knee to dismount and made a little whimpering noise when John’s cock came free. He laid himself face-down on the bed, legs not-quite-together, head pillowed on his hands. John got up and straddled him, making sure to caress Sherlock’s neck with hot breath as he swung his leg over.

Both men were still slick with lube. John added a little more to himself, but didn’t enter Sherlock again just yet. Instead, he fit his cock along the cleft of Sherlock’s arse and slid back and forth, which felt incredible but was also amusing because Sherlock became quite cross when teased. John thought it was hilarious to hear Sherlock, who moments ago was mortified about enjoying sex, whinge, “For Christ’s sake, put it in.” Hilarious but also tremendously arousing. He squeezed the cheeks of Sherlock’s arse around his shaft and continued rutting until he’d had his fill of Sherlock’s raunchy snivelling.

Penetration was one of John’s favourite things about sex, so if it was possible he would take the opportunity to do it two or three or more times during the act. In day-to-day life, Sherlock was so imposing, like a solid mass, a statue. John delighted in these private moments, when he could feel the proof that there was room inside Sherlock for him.

And in this position, he could watch himself slip right in, hear Sherlock’s corresponding moan of delight. He continued to watch as he worked himself in and out, slowly, so he could savour every detail, then looked up to see how Sherlock’s shoulder blades were moving under his skin, how his damp hair stuck to the back of his neck. But this wasn’t precisely what had been asked for. John stretched himself out so he lay almost flat on top of Sherlock, bracing himself with his elbows on either side. The view was not as good, but now he could feel every vibration in Sherlock’s body, whether from his muscles quaking or from his lungs fuelling more lust-soaked vowels.

Sherlock rolled his hips, grinding John further into him. “Oh John, can we do this all day?”

John smirked. “People say things like that, but really you both just get tired and chafed after thirty or forty minutes.”

“Let’s do it for thirty or forty minutes then.”

“Your wish.”

It would be inaccurate to say that Sherlock “didn’t have an ounce of fat on him.” His buttocks were springy and plump and made an excellent cushion. John rested his forehead on Sherlock’s shoulder blade while he pumped leisurely, enjoying especially the repeated press of his pelvis against that soft arse. Giving a sidelong glance to the blank wall, he decided that sometime soon he should buy a big mirror to put there, so he could watch himself fuck Sherlock whenever he wanted. He began picturing in his head what that would look like. Even in this position he would be able to see Sherlock’s toes curling, maybe even catch the look on his face when he came.

He was pulled from his reverie by Sherlock’s lament, “How can this feel so good, but I can’t come from it?”

John tilted his head so his chin rested on Sherlock’s seventh vertebra. That was a good point. “I reckon it’s just not how we’re built,” he said.

“Well, I’m ready to come now.”

“Alright. How do you want to finish?”

“You choose.”

John tucked in his chin and looked down to watch him slowly pulling himself out of Sherlock, then sat back on his heels. “Turn over.” Sherlock obeyed, having become practiced at rearranging those long limbs when John was this close to him.

John was ready to come, too. Sherlock’s earlier embarrassment had gotten to him a little, given him wicked ideas, and now he wanted to finish Sherlock in a way that would make him very ashamed later. To start with, he needed to be in between Sherlock’s legs. He knew how strong Sherlock was -- and how stubborn. At that moment, he briefly thought about how Sherlock could certainly kill him with his bare hands if so inclined, and that notion, along with the twinge of fear that instinctively accompanied it, excited him. It also made him feel that much more powerful, when Sherlock just let his thighs fall open to admit John’s knee pressing between them. He got his other knee alongside, and spread Sherlock’s legs roughly. He’d seen enough of lithe, languorous, stretched-out Sherlock. He wanted to see him folded up. He grabbed both Sherlock’s knees, yanking them up and back. He tucked his shoulders into the backs of both Sherlock’s knees and pressed further down on him, then, slowly, into him.

Sherlock fidgeted below, completely at John’s mercy, trying and failing over and over to gain any sort of leverage. Then he heard John’s blissful groan. “Oh God, keep struggling,” John said. “It’s making my prick harder.” Sherlock paused to parse this, and then John refined his demand slightly: “Fight me a little.”

“What?”

“Fight me.” John hunkered down and gripped Sherlock’s thighs. “Like you don’t want me on you.”

Sherlock put both hands on John’s shoulders and shoved hard, but John had a death-grip on him, and just grabbed harder when he felt the first push. “That’s it,” John grunted. “More.”

Next, Sherlock tried getting just one leg free so he could dig his heel into John’s iliac crest and push him out and off, but he still had no traction and no leverage. And anyway, though he understood what was going on, John was now fucking him so hard, so noisily, so gloriously, he was finding it difficult to think up more ways to discourage him. He regressed to simple, useless thrashing, throwing in some sounds that were a combination of threatening and terrified. In no time, John was roaring and pumping Sherlock so hard, there was now nothing for Sherlock to do but hold on and ride it out.

As the initial intensity of John’s orgasm came and went, Sherlock anticipated that John would only give him three or four more good hard thrusts as he ejaculated, so he forced one arm between them to stroke his own cock, and hoped John could hit his prostate just right in the next six seconds. He could hardly breathe, he was so close. His balls were tight, his cock painfully hard. He squeezed his shaft and rubbed the sensitive spot under the head. So close. So close.

“Come on John,” he rasped, “give me one more good one.”

Still hard, John provided Sherlock with exactly what he wanted, hitting his sweet spot just hard enough to make it hurt a little as he came screaming. John’s consistent punishment of his prostate made his ejaculate plentiful and almost clear. It left three long strands on his chest, all the way up to his collarbones, just as John was finishing up filling Sherlock with his own fluids.

John got his arms under Sherlock’s shoulders and crushed one last little whimper out of him before pulling out and rolling to one side. For a long while he stared glassy-eyed at the ceiling, his expression tense and perplexed.

Sherlock said, “Are you well?”

John blinked. “I have this feeling, like I wanted to do this for a reason. But I don’t remember now.”

“I’m sure it was to do with my incredible sexual magnetism.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because that’s your primary motivation for doing _anything_ , John.” He turned over. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to have a nap.”

John sat up suddenly. “That’s it! I did this to put you to sleep so I could have some peace and quiet, you twat--” He pointed an accusing finger at Sherlock, only to find the man already snoring. He wasn’t sure if he’d won or lost, just then.


End file.
